


Internal Affairs

by Amyz3119



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-11 06:39:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7034023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amyz3119/pseuds/Amyz3119
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She shouldn't have to see a shrink.  The shooting was totally justified.  Little did she know that after entering the door, her life would change forever.   Brittana!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

The name plate on the door read Dr. Chase Strathorn.

You hesitate with your hand just inches from the door knob. Were you supposed to knock? Or just go in? It had already been an exhausting week and this "evaluation" on Friday might just take you over the edge. So much had happened since Monday. The shooting and then the victims families you had to speak with and then the media hype and now this. Talking about feelings of the event. Reliving it out loud with a person who has undoubtedly only lived this kind of life from behind a desk listening to other people's stories and reading about it on reports.

You had to fire on Tremont Williams or you and your partner could both be dead. So why in the world do you have to go to talk to a police shrink about this whole thing? You fired the gun but it didn't take the life of Williams. Your partner had taken a bullet in the arm. It all had happened so fast that you were lucky no one died at the scene although you understand Williams was in critical condition. You are still nursing a bruised head from the pistol whipping you received when your back was turned but you are more than thankful you were still able to walk away from the scene and not be carted off in an ambulance or worse yet, in a body bag.

Your report of the events was now a matter of record but you still had found yourself carrying it with you for this meeting. You open the folder as you lean against the wall of the hallway by the door of Dr. Strathorn.

"It had happened just before midnight on Monday. I, Detective Brittney S. Pierce and my partner Sam Evans were stopping by an apartment in the 4700 block of Winchester to respond to a domestic disturbance call we received on our radio."

Nothing is ever routine about any call you get but usually domestics meant the husband/boyfriend was drunk or high and the wife/girlfriend was getting yelled at or smacked around. They seldom pressed charges and it makes you sad. This was the one part of the job you never cared for.... seeing others feeling like they had no other option but to remain in a volatile situation.

You remember everything like it was happening now. You don't even need to read the report. It is still so vivid in your mind.

"Are you ready to go in?," Sam asked.

"Yes," you had answered with your hand close to your hip where your Glock was holstered.

Sam knocked and identified as police. A woman answered the door with a cigarette in one hand seemingly confused. "Why the hell are you people here?"

"We are responding to a call of domestic disturbance," you had stated. "What call?" the woman replied but it was all she had time to get out before you saw a shadow pause at the end of the hallway leading toward the door where you and Sam were seeking entrance. The figure had taken off down the hall opening the door to the stairs.

You had pushed back from the wall and ran after the figure, Sam right behind you yelling "Stop, Police". You reached the door to the stairs before he did and you had kicked the door open with your foot, gun in hand.

"Are you Detective Pierce?"

You jump as the voice interrupts your trip down a hellish memory lane. Once you refocus you notice a very short woman with long dark hair standing next to you. Masculine hands on either side of her hips and a kind but guarded look in her eyes. She wore an argyle sweater and skirt that came just below her knees with socks pulled up and flat shoes. Fashion was obviously not her forte. Brown eyes, pale skin. No purse. No coat. She wasn't arriving for the first time to the door you surmise. Instant thoughts like this always fill your head quickly. Subconscious part of the job. Take in the scene. See things others don't. Even if things seem on the up and up , your gut can sometimes tell you when something seems a bit off. Always follow your gut was one of the first lessons you learn as a police officer. And that's how you make Detective as fast as you did.

"Excuse me, hello?" There was a slight edge of annoyance to her voice.... but you somehow immediately got the gut feeling she was always like this.

"I'm sorry. Yes, I am Detective Pierce."

"Then you're must be the 4:00 appointment," the woman replied. "Please come on in," she continued and held the door open gesturing with her head for you to go on through in front of her.

"I'm Rachel Berry. Assistant." The woman held her man hand out and you reach to shake it. "They're running a few minutes late. I hope you don't mind waiting here in our lobby," the woman continued as she waved her hand across the room.

"They?" you inquire with an eyebrow raised.

"The doctor. Please come in."

It wasn't expansive...just a few chairs and magazines on a table. A desk in the corner by the door was where the assistant sat down. "I'll let you know when you can go back," she stated and began to type away at the computer on her desk. You take it as a sign she was done talking. You settle into a chair in the middle of the room and find yourself taking a deep breath. To sit for a moment felt good.... you feel like you have been in a constant state of motion since Monday afternoon when you went on shift. You wish you could rewind the clock and then none of this would be happening. You could be wrapping up for the day and going home to your apartment and your cat and your life, such that it is. Familiarity was escaping you now when really all you want is to be back in your normal routine. Before everything was so complicated. You try to flip through a magazine but it doesn't hold your interest for long.

"I'm really not hungry," you told him again as we walked out of the precinct.

"But Britt you know Breadstix has a great special on Mondays. In addition to all you can eat breadsticks they have the all you can eat angel hair pasta," Sam exclaimed lowering his head to be able to better utilize his puppy dog eyes.

You had sighed because you knew how much Sam loved pasta, regardless of how hypocritical it was since it was loaded with carbs and Sam was always trying to let you see his ridiculous abs. "Ok, lets go," you had told him. "But I don't want to stay more than 45 minutes. I have some errands to run during my break today and I want to make sure I have the extra time. Why don't I drive my car and you take ours and that way I can run out when I need to and then we can meet back up at the station and see what's going on."

Sam nodded agreeably, visions of Breadstix undoubtedly dancing in his head.

You opened the door to your BMW, one of the few luxuries you allowed yourself to purchase with the money your parents had left you. The things you would do for Sam you had thought with a slight smile. You had been working together for 7 years now and were friends. You didn't hang out much during your time off together - which didn't seem to be very often - because you got enough of each other at work. And while you knew you could talk to Sam about anything and felt confident the feeling was mutual, you both maintain a slight professional edge to your relationship. Especially after you turned him down when he asked you out during your second year together as partners. It took some adjusting to his ego but you both got through it. And now it was about knowing either of you would take a bullet for the other and that was enough. There was no need to actually converse about such intimacies.

It was a 10 minute drive to Breadstix that you had managed to make in less than 6. Pulling into the parking lot, you had heard your phone chime signaling a text message had been received. You grabbed your phone and looked at the message but noted the number was blocked. "8p at the Cherokee Park fountain." You had made a mental note that it must be one of your C.I.s who perhaps had some information. They liked to meet more face-to-face mostly so they could get some cash out of the deal. The better the info, the more likely they were to see $20 or so.

You sat down on the booth and mulled over the message waiting for Sam - a much slower driver. "Hey did you order for us yet?," he said as he slid into the opposite seat.

"No, I told you I wasn't hungry so I am just going to get a bowl of the minestrone or something. Go crazy though," you grinned.

"Amazing how life can change in the blink of an eye," you find yourself thinking as you stop the memory and come back into focus on where you are and what had occurred in the past 5 days. A quick glance at your watch confirmed it was 4:15. Dr. Strathorn is more than just a few minutes late and you are more than annoyed. You're tired and you don't want to be doing this. You don't need to talk to a shrink about the shooting because it was legitimate. No PTSD for you and hell you wonder why this is even part of the department guidelines. You're a fucking detective with 4 years on the job. A spotless record. You want to go home and take a long, hot bubble bath and put this week behind you. Now you're getting more and more angry. You began to get up from the chair to express your displeasure with this whole thing when your hear the phone that sits on the desk ring. The Assistant answers it.

"Yes?," she speaks into the receiver. "Ok, do you need me to stay or to bring the file in?," she stated after listening for a few minutes to her initial inquiry. "Ok then," she finished and lightly put the phone back in the cradle.

"You can go back now," the woman named Rachel said, her tone and face a little more serious than before as she pointed to the only other door in the room besides the one you entered together.

You are halfway out of your chair already so you rise fully and head to the door, opening it. You're even more annoyed because no one had entered the waiting room the entire time you had been sitting there. Had Dr. Strathorn been in the room the entire time and kept you waiting? If that was the case you and the doctor were definitely getting off on the wrong foot. Which you would be sure to convey. Loudly. Your patience is gone. Upon entering you pull the door closed with a slight slam trying to make sure you set the tone for the first conversation the good doctor and you are going to share.

Upon entering you quickly survey the room. Habits you know. The room was large, larger than the waiting room. A desk is on the left hand side with what appears to be a comfortable chair behind it along with papers and a calendar in plain view. A laptop sits atop the desk but is closed. There is a large couch that could seat three people comfortably on the right side of the room. Two chairs face the couch slightly along with each other. A small refrigerator is next to the desk and has a coffee maker on it. And at the back of the room there is a door. You can hear water running and determine it must be a bathroom. You pace for a moment and then take a seat on the couch. You hear the water stop and you sit up a little straighter on the couch waiting to meet Dr. Strathorn, prepared to give him a piece of your mind.

What you weren't prepared for was the person who stepped out of the bathroom. A woman. With long black hair that is swept back into a ponytail that gathers at the base of her neck. She is wearing a red shirt that has the first two buttons open allowing a tasteful view of her skin to show, a tan skirt that reaches just above her knees - tight but not tacky - and some tan pumps. She has no rings on her hands but wears a necklace that appears to have a round silver ball on it. Small earrings that are also silver and hands that appear soft and well-manicured. The job trains you to notice a lot of things about people right away. Clothes, jewelry, any identifying marks. Sizing them up just like a room. Superficial review of people and surroundings. Quick and sans emotion. No real judgment enters into it. Just facts. And the fact is this woman is simply stunning. You feel your breath pick up a bit, your senses a bit heightened like you just opened a door to a room where you weren't sure what was going to be there to find.

She walks right up to you. You rise to your feet from the couch with a slight look of confusion. The woman's heels allow her some height but she is still a few inches shorter than you even with them on. She is even more stunning up close if that could be possible.

"I...I'm sorry," you stutter. "I guess I'm in the wrong place. I was supposed to have a meeting with Dr. Chase Strathorn," you finish as the woman tilts her head to the side and gives you a slight smile. "You are clearly not him." No kidding you think.

The woman looks at you for a moment longer, just enough to make you almost start speaking again, almost like she is sizing you up as well before extending her hand. "My name is Santana Lopez," she says as you close your hand around the smaller woman shaking it but never losing eye contact. You feel a little off center as you look into the chocolate eyes that meet your own. Probing almost with the depth of them. You admit silently to yourself that you are taken aback by the woman's presence, her aura. More than likely because you aren't expecting it. Not because she is gorgeous. Even though in your line of work you know you should be more prepared for the unknown.... but in all honesty this woman has caught you off guard not just because you were expecting someone else. The room feels charged with electricity. You pause for a moment realizing you haven't yet let go of the woman's hand.

"And I gather you are Detective Pierce," the woman continued as your hands finally part. The dark haired woman sits in one of the chairs while motioning for you to resume your place on the couch with a subtle nod of her head.

"Well ma'am I don't know where the misunderstanding has occurred but I will be happy to find out and determine where I....," you began.

"No, there's no mistake Detective Pierce. This meeting was scheduled so we could talk."

"So you are the one I am supposed to talk to about the shooting," you continue as you sit a little deeper into the couch. You begin to gather your file from the table in-between us.

"Yes Detective, we are going to discuss the shooting."

You sit still for a moment collecting your thoughts. The woman is sitting across from you with a warm but distant smile on her face and her hands clasped in her lap. Typical shrink you think to yourself. Not giving anything away - expressions unreadable.

"Before we start, I want to review your file with you so we can skip over what I know about you Detective."

"Really," you reply with the slight smile and an arch of your eyebrow, "Just what exactly do you know?" You are trying to relax, to regain some sort of control over your heart that is beating a little too fast. Nerves, you think to yourself. Must be nerves over talking to a shrink. You never were a very good liar….even to yourself.

The woman stands from the chair and walks over to the desk grabbing the laptop and returns to the chair across from you. She hits several keystrokes and then begins to read from a screen you cannot see.

"Lets see," she began, 'I know you are one of the more highly decorated detectives in the division and that you have a very high conviction rate. You were promoted to Detective within 18 months on the force, one of the youngest females to so do in the state. I know that you were recently at a scene where two people were shot. The one you shot is in critical condition. The other is your partner Sam Evans," she states without much inflection.

You look at her closely and rise from the couch. Even in her sitting position she seems in charge of the room. You are actually breathing a bit heavier trying to keep your emotions in check when you reply, " Yes but with the news media coverage you aren't telling me much that everyone doesn't already know."

The woman considers you for a moment before going back to reading from the screen.

"I know you spend most of your nights at home alone or at the bar across the street from your apartment. I know on Saturdays when there is a DJ at said bar that you like to dance but only by yourself. I know you have a BMW but I also know you own a red crotch rocket that you rarely ride. You have few friends but the ones you do spend time with you are close to. I know you are sexually active but that you aren't seeing anyone exclusively at this time. I know that you have a sister that you barely speak to except on holidays. And I know that every 17th of the month after your work day is done you take flowers to the cemetery and place them on the gravestones of your parents who died when you were 21."

You stand there a moment, your mouth open. Your face flaming with emotions you don't quite know how to define: anger, embarrassment. You almost feel violated. You step forward without thought, thankful the table is between you so you don't end up in her face. Your blood pumping through your veins and your adrenaline matching it beat for beat. You are completely caught off guard again with her and you react.

"What the fuck kind of shrink are you?" you growl through gritted teeth.

Her eyes soften but she still holds her authoritative demeanor. She closes the laptop and places it on the table before standing from the chair, keeping her eyes on you the entire time.

You start to talk before you even really know what you are going to say. " I….I thought the whole point of this was for me to come here and talk about the shooting, get my "feelings" about the shooting off my chest so that you could evaluate me and clear me to get back on the streets. I get paperwork that states I am to meet with Dr. Chase Strathorn and I'm at his door and instead find you here. Then you pull a file on me and recite back to me personal information that a police shrink could not know unless they have either been talking about me with others and they have been snooping around my personal life. Either way this is complete bullshit and I am done listening to it."

You begin your way around the table opposite where she stands and toward the door.

You are almost at the door when you hear her speak again

"Please wait Detective."

"You fucking doctors are all the same," you say and reach for the door handle.

"I'm not a doctor, Detective."

You slowly turn to face her and see she has taken a few steps in your direction.

"I'm Lieutenant Santana Lopez. Internal Affairs."

You stand there yet again with your mouth open.

Her eyes hold yours steady.

"But please, call me Santana."

 

//

You stand at the door for what seems like hours but in actuality is only 30 seconds.

"Please if you will sit down I will explain to you what I can," the woman I now knew as Lieutenant Lopez said in a soft voice.

You walk back to the couch slowly, not even conscious of your legs taking you there. You are trying to wrap your head around what could possibly be going on. You sit down and look at her, your eyes meeting hers for a moment. Electricity again. She begins to speak.

"We first took interest in you when you scored so high on the Detective exam. While it has occurred before your scores coupled with your quick rise in the department flagged you on our radar. We watched your career as it developed, keeping tabs on your training, on your arrests, on the professional relationships you gathered along the way. It is unusual for a female to perform so well within the department. Unfortunately this job has its silent prejudices about women and their role. So when you seemingly broke through the unspoken barriers we wondered why it appeared to be easier for you to accomplish than we usually note."

She continued as you sit still on the couch, your muscles tense, your eyes looking at everything but seeing nothing as you try to piece this together in the back of your mind.

"We kept the information on you in a file and we would add to it when something happened. A new arrest, a change in your relationship status, an event that might be worth noting. Something we thought was a little out of the ordinary in what mostly was an ordinary life." She continues to look at you and she talks. Never breaking eye contact. It's becoming unnerving.

"We kept this up for the 3 years you had been a Detective until July 27th of last year and we moved you into what we in Internal Affairs call a 'Condition Status.' It makes you a more," she hesitates only a moment to seemingly try and find the right words. "A more controlled candidate for lack of a better term."

"July 27th? That was almost 10 months ago," you state.

"Yes, I know," she replies. "Once you move to a Condition Status you are assigned a specific handler that digs a little deeper into your everyday life and happenings. But before that your past is further explored and the information previously on file is reviewed by people that provide an opinion as to your overall well-being. They predict who you are, how you operate. And as a handler we make sure the predictions match what we see in every day work and personal operation."

"Handler?" You are so taken aback by all of this you can't even formulate a full question but she seemed to understand and nods her head.

"I was assigned as your handler on August 1. I have been documenting your life since that time. It is my job Detective Pierce and in no way as your handler is anything I document shared with anyone else. I was given your file with the synopsis of your character, the predictions of your responses to certain events that may occur moving forward. How you might respond in a stressful setting at work, a difficult setting in your personal life. Those type of things. But my notes on you are not read by anyone. They are my notes in my laptop and they are not shared."

"I tell you this because I know it is a lot to take in right now. And while I know trust is the furthest thing from your mind when it comes to me, you can indeed trust me Detective. I am your Handler."

You take a deep breath in the attempt to get your emotions back under control. To wrap your head around what you have just been told. She seemed to sense your demeanor shift from anger to confusion. You see her rise from the chair and head over to the desk, reaching to open the small refrigerator. You can't help but watch her the entire way. She pulls out something and brings it to you.

It was a Snapple Green Tea. You look at her hand holding the bottle in front of you and then back to her eyes. Fucking Snapple Green Tea. What you drink nearly every day. You half huff with a grin that holds absolutely no humor in it but you don’t take your eyes off hers. It's like you can't. You unconsciously feel yourself allow her to place it your hand. The bottle feels cold against the heat of your skin.

"Jesus, you know what I drink? What else do you know?"

She simply looks at you for a moment and then resumes her seat. She looks at you intensely, as if she is not sure what to say next. But her eyes hold yours steady and show no fear.

"I know we need your help, Detective."

You just sit there, your brain firing in 100 different directions. Responses and scenarios in your head occurring faster than you can process. Your breathing is shallow, your heart pounding, your hands sweating. You can't focus.

You have to get out of here. It's like the attacks you used to get for the first six months after your parents died.

You stand. You look at her but you don't really see her. You cannot figure out what to do, what this means, what is going on. "I have to go," you tell her as you walk briskly toward the door and open it.

"Detective," you hear her begin but you hear nothing else as you shut the door behind you.

Rachel must be gone as her desk sits empty when you come through the waiting room and out the main door. You walk down the hall and out the front of the building toward your car. You half expect to hear the Lieutenant behind you. But no one is coming through the front doors of the building as you put the key in the ignition and drive away. You only live 15 minutes from the precinct but you don't even recall the drive home. Before you know it you are parked in your assigned spot in your apartment complex. You enter the apartment and place your keys in the dish by the front door and your purse on the hook of the hall butler that rests just inside entrance.

You go to the kitchen and open the refrigerator to grab a beer and see the Snapple Green Tea bottles on the door. You immediately close it without grabbing anything and lean against the door, your head back and eyes closed. This is not a beer kind of night, you think to yourself. This is a night that calls for tequila. You go to your room and put your gun and holster in the nightstand drawer next to the bed and sit down on the purple duvet. You take your fingers and massage your scalp, pulling your blonde hair back with each stroke. You cannot think about this tonight. You don't even know what it means let alone what Santana Lopez wants from you.

You change into jeans and a white tee shirt, some flip flops. Your cat Lord Tubbington saunters in and rubs his head against your legs before jumping up and laying in his usual spot at the foot of the bed. You give him a few strokes under the chin like he enjoys but your mind is a million miles away. Jesus this week has thrown you completely off center. You can't think about it now. You'll think about it tomorrow.

Tonight you're getting shit faced.

You grab your keys and your wallet and lock up, heading to Seasons. The bar sits only two blocks down and a street over from your apartment which is important when your plan is to get drunk. DUIs don't reflect well on people who are supposed to uphold the law and everything.

It's Friday night and Seasons is already filling up. People often come in after work on Fridays. People with normal Monday through Friday, 9 to 5 type jobs because what better way to unwind from your week of staring at a computer in your boring office job then meeting your friends coming from their boring office jobs.

All you wanted was to unwind yourself from this hell of a week with a hot bath, lit candles and a bottle of wine. Instead you walk into the bar and sit on the first open stool you find by the door and give John behind the bar a slight wave. Terry may own the place but John really runs it. He is the main bartender but he really oversees everything out front on the weekends which is their busiest time of course. Terry works more in the afternoons. John's shift starts at 6 and when he gets here Terry heads to the back. Katie is the other regular weekend bartender but she really just follows John's directions.

John sees your wave and acknowledges you with a nod of his head but he is busy getting an order together and holds a quick finger up letting you know he will be there in a second.

You drop your keys and wallet on the bar and fish your phone out of your back pocket. You see it shows 6:20. Two hours ago you were sitting in a waiting room worrying about sounding good to the shrink so they could approve you and get you back on the job. Two hours ago your life made sense, your future a little gray with the shooting and all but it comes with the job and you knew it was justifiable and in the end you weren't all that concerned about what was next. Now you have no idea. You look further on the phone and see 2 missed calls. Both are from Sam. You had placed your phone on silent for the appointment and failed to put your ringer back on in your haste to get out of there. There is only one voice mail and after punching in your code you place your phone to your ear and put your finger in your other so you can hear well.

"Hey Brittany, it's me. I wanted to see how the shrink appointment went. Did he note you as certifiable because we've all been taking bets." Sam chuckled a little. "Nah, seriously I was just checking in with you. I guess one of the benefits of getting shot is that I don't come back to work for another 4 weeks. And only then after they make sure my arm is ok. I heard they were giving you the weekend off. I'm glad. Try to enjoy it.... and Brittany if you need to talk you know I'm here." You smile slightly and delete the message. You put the phone back down and see John in front of you, his grin a little too contagious as yours widens.

"Hey there stranger....what'll it be tonight babe?"

"Stranger?," you reply. "Jeez John maybe I come in here too much if it's been a week and you are calling me stranger."

"You're right. I should be asking for your autograph or something huh? I saw you all over the newspapers on Tuesday. Actually I should swing around the bar and give you a hug. I am glad you're ok," he said as he absent mindedly wiped the bar with a towel and placed a napkin down. "First round on me ok? So what'll it be?"

"Well you know I love Don Eduardo Anejo but I won't make you pay for that so make it a Patron please. Salt and lime as well if you could."

"Of course but I couldn't have bought you the Don Eduardo anyway," he said pointing to an empty place on the shelf. "We're out."

Probably a good thing you think and immediately feel tired. Exhausted. You look in the mirror above the bar to see what was going on behind you. White collar workers abound. A large party celebrating someone's birthday was close to where the band would be setting up in about 2 hours. Couples sharing glasses of wine and some college aged kids with pitchers of beer littering the tables. The place was pretty full even at half past six. The bar stretched nearly the length of the place....so long you really couldn't see the end of it. As you glance to your right you can see mostly single people sitting here, watching the TVs to see the local news and waiting for the latest sporting event to begin. There were some regulars that you know from frequenting the place but only for meaningless and quickly forgotten conversation about weather, politics and scores of the most recent ballgames.

During your quick review of the place John had come and gone with your drink. You lick the webbing of your left hand, sprinkle some salt, lick it off and take the shot back. It was a "John shot" meaning it was the equivalent of two but you manage in one easy swallow, relishing the burn on the back of your throat as you follow with the lime. He left you an ice water as well and you sip on it allowing the tequila to take effect. You look up toward the TVs but your mind plays back that what you were trying so desperately to forget.

"We need your help." The mantra played back in your head over and over. Along with her eyes. How they looked so intense at you. Intrigued by her the moment you saw her. Feeling some sort of pull toward her even more intensely even after she said who she was, when she told you to call her by her first name. Santana. That was before the fear and confusion took over. Before you walked out the door without looking back,

"John, another please." You don't want to think. Not tonight. Tonight was about drinking it away. The shooting, the meeting, the fear, the confusion. You don't want to think about her. Her eyes. Her name.

He brought another down. Another "John shot." Another lime. Another burn down the back of your throat. You feel it as you sit and listen to those around you talk. You continue to stare at the TVs, but your mind still sees her. You check your phone again and it reads 7:40. Time is flying and you are buzzing.

You see John busy at the other end of the bar but still manage to catch his attention with a nod of your head toward the empty shot glass. He frowns almost imperceptibly but nods and pours another handing it to Katie and pointing to you. She turns and looks, seeing you with the empty glass and heading down your way. She sits it in front of you and asks if you need anything else. You shake your head and began your routine of the lick, shoot, suck. It is loud in here but the bar area is starting to clear out a bit. The tables are still full though since they are more conducive to conversations with friends. As a result John is hopping at the far end of the bar as the servers come to pick up the orders from the tables. Katie is hanging around down by where you are seated, the front door of the place fairly close to your left since you are at the farthest end of the bar.

"Well, it wasn't Don Eduardo but it will do," you say to Katie. Not slurring but a little loose lipped. She grins wiping down the bar area even though there really wasn't any mess to clean.

"Yeah, you know we don't keep much of it here because really you're the only one that ever orders it and even then only occasionally," Katie said as she refills your nearly empty water glass.

"I only get it when I have had a particularly tough week," you reply making small talk.

"Yeah that's why when Terry told me someone had bought the entire last bottle I thought it might be you," Katie said washing out some glasses. "John has been talking about you being on the news and in the papers so I figured this would be the definition of tough week for you."

"Someone bought the whole bottle?"

"Yep. Came in around 5:30, before John's shift and got Terry. I knew that John wouldn't have done that because he was telling me earlier this week he thought you might be in sometime soon and want it. But that's not what was odd....." Katie trailed off.

"What was odd?"

"It was that they had us bag it but has spent the whole night down at the far end of the bar just drinking water. I mean why buy it here when you could have easily gone to Liquor Barn and gotten it for probably half of what Terry charged," Katie continued.

But you barely hear anything more. You go rigid and slowly turn your head to the mirror to better see the end of the bar. As people have cleared out it has become easier to see to the end so it was only a few seconds before you spot her eyes in the mirror. Looking right at you. Her lips around a straw as she sips her water. Her eyes still not losing contact when she sits the glass down, puts her elbows on the bar and clasps her hands under her chin.

You gather up your phone and keys, drop a $50 bill on the bar counter and stand up turning to the door. You stand there for just a moment. You turn around. She turns slightly on the stool and watches you as you walk toward her. She moves her purse off of the barstool next to her and looks back toward the TVs. But somehow you know that she isn't really watching them just like you weren't. She is looking in the mirror at you as you slide onto the stool next to her that she just freed for you. You can't help but maintain eye contact with her -- but only through the mirror behind the bar.

Fucking electricity again.

She opens her purse and takes the recently purchased bottle of tequila from it, sitting it on the bar. John comes over to where you now sit with unasked questions behind his eyes.

"Two shot glasses please," you ask him. "A salt shaker and plenty of lime."

"Hello Detective," the dark haired beauty says while John goes to get the tequila accoutrements you requested, never losing eye contact through the mirror.

You break the eye contact as you turn to the right and face her. She does the same. You see she has changed clothes. Skinny jeans, gray shirt with a low scooping neck revealing the necklace. Hair now out of the ponytail and hanging in loose curls down her back. Red lipstick, some of which has come off on the straw in her water. Gorgeous.

"Hello again," you reply as John opens the bottle of Don Eduardo and pours a healthy shot in each glass before putting it down and sliding the salt and a number of limes on a napkin between the two of you.

You lick the webbing between your thumb and forefinger again and apply the salt. You suck it clean, shoot the tequila and suck noisily on the lime before slamming the shot glass back on the bar. She hasn't picked up her glass yet.

"Is it really that good of tequila Detective?"

You turn and fully face her, shoulders squared to her body next to you. She closes her eyes in merely an elongated blink and matches your movement, your knees nearly touching. She meets your eyes again with such intensity you are almost at a loss for words.

Almost.

You breathe out, tasting the tequila on your tongue as you swipe it across your lips. Your eyes lock with hers. Electricity.

"If we are going to be working together Santana," you say with only a slight slur, " I guess it would be better if you started calling me Brittany."

 


	3. Chapter 3

You watch Santana take the tequila to her lips. She kicks it back slow but manages the entire contents of the glass with no trouble. She has done this before, you can tell. She takes the lime in-between her teeth and sucks, her eyes squinting for a minute against the bitter taste. 

You already told yourself that if she takes another shot there is no way you are going to watch her lick a wet spot onto her hand again for the salt.

"I told you it was good tequila," you manage with a slight smile on your face.

You are both sitting at the bar, facing the TVs now. It seems easier somehow to not face each other as you drink. As you allow whatever this is to marinate between you. This new sense of professionalism, this new relationship. You don't really know what is going on but you also know that you're not going to find out on a Friday night in the middle of this bar. But maybe you will be able to learn something....

"How did you find this place?"

Her words shift you out of the alcohol induced conversation you are carrying on in your own head.

"I figured you would know," you reply not bothering to hide the slight sarcasm in your voice.

She only sits there and looks at you through the mirror behind the bar. Watching you. Waiting for you to answer her question.

"I moved into my apartment 3 years ago and found the bar a few days later. It wasn't long until it was a regular hangout for me since it is so close. Plus they serve food until 10 and there’s no point in cooking for just me so it was a nice place I could go after I got off shift and wind down."

You don't mention the fact that with it being walking distance it keeps you out of trouble. You figure she knows.

“It’s nice,” she says to you looking down at her now empty glass. “Feels very welcoming.”

You nod. But you don’t want her to be the only one asking questions. You have plenty of your own.

"Where do you like to go?" 

She turns her head to look you in the eye, her own eyes slightly widened. You think she is taken aback by the question but you figure if she knows so much about you surely you can ask her questions that are really nothing more than small talk. And deflection.

"Nowhere." But she hesitates like she’s given something away and it takes her a moment to regain her composure. “Um, I am a fan of bars like this. Something within the neighborhood, something close to home."

You can tell she isn't going to give you details about her life. You feel annoyed since she has confessed to knowing so much about you but honestly you're too exhausted and don't feel like challenging her. You don’t feel like trying to read her. You don't know what you feel right now..... but you do know your mission night was to feel nothing. That was the whole point of you coming out here tonight. Getting drunk. 

John is busy so you grab the bottle yourself to pour each of you another shot of the Eduardo.

"How did you know I would be here?" 

She is hesitant again. She doesn't feel comfortable talking with you. Not here. She had no problem telling you all she knew about you in her office a few hours ago. But it was safe there. She was in control. Here you are on a more even playing field and perhaps you have the upper hand because this is your space. Your bar. But it makes you think…  
You turn and face her. She swivels slightly toward you in the chair.

“Have you ever been here before?” you ask her. 

She turns back and squares herself again to the bar. She takes a deep breath and exhales and says nothing. But you realize that she is answering you without words.  
She has been here. In some way her being here prior to tonight revolved around you. 

You feel the anger start low in your gut all over again.

She is given an out though as John comes over and refills your water glasses again. Santana looks up at the TVs. John eyes her and then looks at you with a tilt of his head and a smirk on his face. If she notices she doesn't let on but you know what he's thinking. You furrow your brow at him. He simply smiles and walks down to grab another order from a server.

“I should get going,” she says and you try to maintain your composure because you have so many questions. And you don’t want her to leave.

“But you have to finish that last shot,” you reply eyeing the glass in front of her. “It is against the law to waste good tequila. I wouldn’t want to have to arrest you.” You wonder if she reads too far into the statement.

She smiles slightly and picks up the shot glass. No salt this time, she simply shoots back the liquid and sets the glass back onto the bar. She doesn’t even wait for you to join her in the drink.

“I’ll be in touch,” she tells you as she gathers her purse and begins to seek out her wallet from inside.

“I got it,” you tell her referring to the tip. “You already bought the entire bottle of tequila.”

She smiles at you again. Her eyes meet yours. Electric.

“Goodnight Brittany.”

You just about melt hearing your name from her lips for the first time.   
“Goodnight Santana.”

She walks back toward the bar entrance and you stop following her out of your perihipal vision about half way and you stare blindly at the tequila in front of you. You hear the chime of the door and you know she is gone.

You have so many questions. What does this mean? When will she be in touch? What is this help she said she needed? How could she have been here before if you were here? You would have remembered that. You would have picked her out of a crowd, you just know it.

None of these questions could be something you can answer now. You don’t even think you want to know.

You wonder if you can finish this bottle before you pass out. That’s the one question you can answer. Perhaps the only thing right now you can control. You shoot the tequila in front of you and pick up the bottle, fill your glass again and decide to find out. 

/

You wake up to the sun streaming in from your windows. You roll onto your back and try to gather yourself as you come from that state of sleep to being awake. You realize it is quite possible that your mouth has never been this dry in your entire life. Fucking tequila. Fucking Eduardo.... 

You sit up with a shot.

Tequila.

Santana.

The sudden movement to a sitting position ends up being a very bad idea as your head spins. Your stomach isn’t quite sure if it's going to cooperate with you this morning either since you didn't cooperate very well with it last night. By the way, you did finish the bottle it reminds you.

You recall the evening at least up until Santana left. Then all you remember is the haze. That state where events were just on the tip of your tongue but not quite reachable. You do remember walking home but even that isn’t quite all there.

You’re glad you have the weekend off because you have a raging headache and because you have things you need to do. You find yourself in the kitchen after a hot shower getting yourself some aspirin and water. You give Lord Tubbington fresh food and water and he silently thanks you by nudging through your legs as he makes his way to the bowls.  
You open the front door and grab the paper. Lay it on the table and eat a sandwich since you don’t really like breakfast foods unless you are in the mood. Plus your stomach needs something on it quickly. You’re confident there is still alcohol in there that needs to be absorbed. 

Routines sound good right about now.

It’s Saturday and it’s going to be pretty outside or so says the paper as you flip through the main headlines. Maybe you will go down to the park and feed the ducks. You need some more down time. Something mindless to occupy you and to hopefully allow you time to get rid of this hangover. 

You grab your keys, wallet and phone and head out the door.

There’s a gas station a few blocks from the park and you stop there to buy a loaf of bread. Cherokee Park is beautiful and is very crowded today but you manage to find a parking spot not too far from the edge of the pond. You find yourself down by the water and you don’t really even remembering walking there. You are thinking about the last week. Everything that has happened.

The ducks are hungry and before you know it the loaf of bread is gone and you walk to a bench away from the pond, a signal to the ducks that they need to move on to someone else.

It is relatively loud by the bench as there is a large family gathering under a rotunda by the swings. Celebrating a birthday it appears. The adults are sitting at picnic tables and visiting while the kids play on swings and slides and other contraptions that make up the playland. 

You smile but it is bittersweet. You remember being that 8 year old blonde girl hanging upside down from the monkey bars while your parents watched. Your dad helping your baby sister on the other end of the see saw and you seemed like you were so high in the air for those moments until it was your turn to fall back down to earth… only to push off again.

You look around some more and see joggers and walkers and people with their dogs on a leash. Picnics with blankets and traditional baskets. Kids walking on the concrete that surround the huge fountain that makes up the middle of this main part of the park. A mother scolding her child to get away from it before she accidently gets her dress wet.  
The fountain. Something about seeing it clicks in your mind.

The fountain. 

You remember.

You pull out your phone and go to the text message screen. You scroll past all the texts of concern and then well wishes from friends. There were quite a few and with everything going on you completely forgot about the message.

The one you received while you were in Breadstix with Sam at lunch that day.

8p at Cherokee Park fountain, it read.

But that was last Monday and you obviously hadn’t shown up. But you had never heard back either.

The number was blocked so there was no way to reply. But this isn’t the only way your C.I.’s can reach you. You suddenly wonder if it might have been Artie. And if it wasn’t then it was entirely possible that he might be able to find out who it had been. There was one way to find out.

***  
It was early in the morning the first time you met with Artie. You remember because the sun was just rising over the trees by the fountain. He had contacted you via phone when you were working on a case about 2 years ago. A woman had been assaulted and beaten to within an inch of her life. While you didn’t normally handle these types of cases there was no other woman on duty when the call came in from the hospital and you volunteered to take it after learning the victim in question had specifically asked for a female. You can only imagine the trauma that she had been through so you didn’t hesitate to say ok.

When you got back from the hospital after taking the woman’s statement you had a message left by a man saying her had some information on a woman who had been attacked. He asked to meet you at the Cherokee Park fountain at 9 am the next day. You were there a few minutes before 9 when a man came down the path to the fountain in a wheelchair. He had a latte sitting in his lap between his legs and a camera around his neck. Like he was there to take pictures or something. You knew right off the bat that he wasn’t. He was too nervous, a slight sheen across his brow which made no sense because it was cool in the morning. But you didn’t want to scare him off so you just stood by the fountain looking at the sun and waiting for him to speak.

It was only a few moments before you heard “Detective Pierce?”

You replied only with a slight arch of your eyebrow and the words, “Yes. And you are…?”

“My name is Artie and I left you a message about the assault on the woman.”

You reach your hand out to shake his confirming you suspicions that he is outside his element. His grip is sweaty. “Why did you want to meet here instead of coming down to the station to give us this information?”

He took a sip of his latte and was slow to reply. “I work as a volunteer in the homeless shelter down on 27th Street. I hear a lot from the people who come in to the facility – both men and women since we have locked segregation for each sex. A man came in last night and was talking to someone else in the shelter and mentioned that he knew the guy who attacked the woman earlier that evening. I don’t want to cause an issue with me volunteering at the shelter as it is important to me but I knew I couldn’t withhold this from the authorities.”

Artie begins to tell you what he knows about the man he heard this from and when you can find him in the shelter. You write all the information down that Artie tells you and you again thank him for it. 

“I think I could provide information to you from time to time,” he tells you as you both make your way down the path to the place where your cars are parked. “What would be the best way to reach you?”

You give him your cell phone number and tell him that he can always contact you by sending a text to meet you at the fountain.   
****

You've me with Artie many times over the past 2 years. He has heard things in his role as a volunteer that most people don’t in their normal course of work. Word on the streets always seems to flow through the shelters and he has given you many tips that resulted in arrests. Including the assault on the woman that first brought you together. That scumbag got 25 years. And he quite likely never would have been caught without that original information from Artie.

You decide to wait until things settle down and you are back at work before contacting him. 

You also decide you are going to go into the precinct for a bit. While it is Saturday, you know the paperwork is piling up from your unplanned absence over the course of the last 5 days. The paperwork isn’t going to file itself. You head back to your car, leaving behind the ducks who have moved on to the next bread-giving human.

/

Your desk is an absolute disaster. Not just from the paperwork but from the pile of letters that are sitting by your keyboard. Kept together by a rubber band that seems to be close to snapping. 

“What are you doing here Pierce?” 

Dave Karofsky has been a detective for the past 10 years. He isn’t the type of detective you ever want to be. He’s lazy and lacks compassion. His demeanor toward many victims shows that lack of compassion. His belly that hangs over his belt shows the lazy.

“Just coming in to catch up on some paperwork Dave,” you reply while trying to gather the rubberbanded letters and place them on the floor.

“Yeah,” Karosfksy continues. “All those have been coming in over the past few days since the shooting. I guess shooting scumbags means people like the police again.”  
You choose to ignore him because you can tell he is itching to get you going. What’s new. He knows you think that’s crap and that many officers don’t even un-holster their gun in their careers let alone shoot someone. Maybe coming in here was a bad idea. You really don’t have the patience to deal with Karofsky’s bullshit when the day is gorgeous like this and you are still a little shattered from everything that has happened. 

You turn your computer on and reach to grab your desk phone so you can check your messages. Hearing the automated system tell you there are 37 messages waiting you decide you are not going to start this endeavor without coffee. Your hangover has subsided but some good old fashion caffiene might help get you into gear. You stand and head to the break room down the hall. You run into several other officers and they all take a few minutes to check on you and ask about your partner Sam.   
You need to call him back but it just hasn’t seemed a priority.

By the time you are heading back to your desk with now lukewarm coffee in your hand it has been about 15 minutes. You sit the coffee on the desk and reach back to pick up the phone when you see it.

A card is sitting right next to the handset, on top of the numbers so you couldn’t even dial out without removing it. It’s a business card and in neat handwriting it reads “Sunday. 4p”. You turn it over and almost drop it. 

The other side reads Dr. Chase Strathorn.

You stand and look around. No one even looks up and thankfully Karofsky’s on the phone. You don’t want to call attention to yourself but you know that somehow between when you went to get coffee and you came back Santana was here. Jesus Christ was she following you? You are sure she must be aware that you are off until Monday and yet she knew enough to know you would be here. 

“Fuck this,” you mumble aloud, grabbing your keys and turning off the computer. You weren’t gone that long so maybe she’s still in the building.

You are coming down the main hall when you hear the sound of heels clicking against the floor. You look up to catch just a glimpse of dark hair rounding a corner and you take off in a sprint. You’re at the same corner within seconds and see the door to the bathroom shutting and without hesitation you slam it open ready to confront Santana.  
Rachel.

It’s Rachel by the sink when you enter the bathroom and she jumps from the whirlwind that is you coming in. 

“Jesus Christ Detective,” she starts. “You scared me to death!!”

You feel a tad bit guilty about startling her but there are more pressing issues to contend with at the moment.

“Did you put this on my phone,” you demand holding the business card reading the fake doctor’s name in front of her face.

“I did,” Rachel replies. “The Lietenant asked me to do so when she called me this morning. She said you would be in sometime today and she wanted me to get it on your desk before you arrived but I was a little late and saw your computer was on. I simply placed it by your phone as instructed.”

“How in the hell did she know I was coming here?” Your anger now is more overwhelming than when Santana first confessed to this in Dr. Strathorn’s office. “Is she following me?”  
Rachel drops her head slightly and takes a deep breath. She looks around before realizing no one is going to overhear this conversation taking place in the women’s bathroom where there is only one stall.

“She is very good at her job Detective. She has studied you for a long time and is familiar enough with you to understand your patterns and the way you reason. She isn’t always right of course but I will be honest.. ..the majority of the time she is.” 

Rachel looks at you like you are getting ready to argue but the truth is there is no point. The only thing you can do to keep control of this situation is to perhaps somehow throw Santana off her game. Otherwise you know you are just a lackey to her and you aren’t going to have that.

“Where is she?”

Rachel’s eyes grow wide and her mouth opens for a moment before she tries to answer.

“I…I don’t know where she is Detective.”

“That’s complete and utter bullshit Rachel and we both know it,” you growl at her. “And from the look on your face moments ago I am sure that no one has ever actually asked you that question when it comes to your boss. But I can assure you that while your boss may know a lot about me, she doesn’t know everything. I am not predictable like a little Pavlovian dog who hears the bell ring and comes running. I am not a little plaything that can be beckoned and commanded as to where to go and when to be there. I don’t care how great she thinks she is or how good at her job she is or how much she claims to need me. I am a highly decorated Detective and I have my own dedctuve reasoning abilities. If you won’t tell me where she is then I guess I’ll have to figure it out myself. But keep in mind that you people came to me for help and yet you haven’t told me anything about what’s going on. You have followed me, kept files on intimate parts of my life and I am sure the violation I am feeling now from all of that will be nothing compared to once I get the true picture…. If I am ever given it. But I ask one simple question of you and that’s too much. Fuck this whole thing Rachel. And you can tell that to Santana tomorrow at 4p because my ass is going to be as far away from Dr. Chase Strathorn’s office as is humanly possible. Tell Santana she can find some other schmuck to give her the ‘help’ she needs.”

You’re panting and need to catch your breath. 

Rachel just stands there. There is a light in her eyes that wasn’t there before during your outburst. She doesn’t say a word and the two of you continue to lock eyes for a few more moments until you turn to open the bathroom door back to the hall.

“It’s Saturday,” Rachel states quietly looking at the floor.

“Yeah?” You reply turning to look at her again.

She’s almost whispering. “If Santana goes out then there is only one place she goes on Saturdays.”

“And where is that Rachel?”

Rachel returns her eyes to yours before she replies.

“Nowhere.”

/

You pull up to the bar and find a place to park in the back because you want to gather your surroundings before you go in. You have heard of this bar before but because it is in the opposite direction of the way you travel home, you haven’t ever had the occasion to go in.

The sign outside is lit up because it’s nearly 10:00 and night has fallen.

Nowhere, it reads.

You walk in and it’s filled with people. The actual bar lies against the entire left wall and it reminds you of Seasons where you and Santana shared tequila last night. There are no bar stools though and the section is fairly narrow. You walk up to the bar and ask for a Bacardi and Diet from the attractive male bartender who smiles at you with bleached out white teeth and a mohawk. 

“Hey, I don’t think I have seen you here before,” he tells you handing back your card that he swiped to keep your tab open. “I’m Puck.”  
You offer him a slight smile but you have to talk up to be heard over the music that is thumping loud out of speakers you cannot see.  
“Brittany,” you reply.

You’re slightly turned against the bar so you can scan the room but still make it look like you might be carrying on a conversation with Puck. You see people all around the bar area and some outside on the open patio but there is no sign of who you are looking for. The bar itself doesn’t appear to be very large so your first thought is she isn’t here.  
“Are you here for the open mic?” Puck asks. 

You pause and look back to him.

“Yeah.”

“It’s back through there,” Puck replies and points towards a hallway with two swinging saloon type doors across the walk through. “I think they may have just started.”  
You push through the doors slowly and quickly survey the room. There are tables and chairs lining around a small stage that takes up the far end of the wall. It is all in a slight semi-circle and you can tell this must be a popular venue because even with all the people out front, this room is filled to near capacity.  
There is a man singing on the stage with a guitar in hand. Some soulful song whose words aren’t resonating with you at this point because you are still scanning the room. But it sounds decent enough.

You manage to take a seat at a table far in the back, nearly pushed into a corner. The table is small and you surmise only used for cocktails between the two people that were designed to share it. Larger parties were up closer to the stage. You guess the room seats about 100 with a little standing room if needed. The lights are low said for the stage which is lit up like a Christmas tree. There is little chance that any one up there performing will be able to see into the crowd more than the first few tables.   
Guitar man finishes his song to applause by the audience. You can’t really make out anyone in particular because you are still trying to adjust to the lighting. You are still occupied going over the room when a server comes up to you and checks to see if you’re ok.

“Do you need another drink?” the pretty girl asks.

You look down and see that you have just a swallow of the rum left and repeat your order to her. You tell her you have a tab at the bar with Puck and she tells you she’ll be right back and wanders out through the doors to the bar.

You are still surveying the audience but you cannot make out much other than the back of patron’s heads and profiles.

After a few minutes, pretty-server-girl comes back and hands you the new drink with a napkin and leans over to grab your now empty glass. The music is cueing up for the next open mic performer, you can hear it in the background behind the noise of people chatting between songs.

You look up to thank the server for the drink but your mouth stays open and no words come out.

On the stage in front of the microphone is Santana. The music grows louder and the chatting ceases.

“I hear the ticking of the clock, I’m lying here the room’s pitch dark.  
I wonder where you are tonight, no answer on the telephone.  
And the night goes by so very slow,  
Oh I hope that it won’t end though. Alone.”  
She is singing Heart’s Alone but not in the rocked out version that they are famous for but the slow, heart wrenching version that is more Celine Dion.  
She’s not only singing it. She is singing it well.

“Til now, I only got by on my own. I never really cared until I met you.  
And now it chills me to the bone. How do I get you alone?”

Unlike the guy before her with his soulful sound that you listened to but didn’t hear, Santana’s words seem to hit you in the gut with the power behind them. The electricity is there again even though she doesn’t know you are here. You find her incredibly beautiful.

“You don’t know how long I have wanted to touch your lips and hold you tight.  
You don’t know how long I have waited and I was going to tell you tonight.  
But the secret is still my own. And my love for you is still unknown. Alone.”

The music is swells during the interlude and you have time to judge what you have just heard. Santana’s voice is husky and sultry and - let’s face it - incredibly sexy. But she is sad as she sings it. You can feel it, hear it in the way she delivers the lines. She is making your heart beat faster for reasons you cannot truly understand.  
She is singing the chorus into the microphone again and she doesn’t look up once into the crowd. It looks like her eyes are closed. You wonder what she is thinking about as she is singing. You don’t know anything about her and all this is doing is making you want to change that. But you feel guilty now. Like you have stumbled into something too private. Even after all that Santana knows about you, this makes you feel you have crossed a line. 

She is finishing the song and you are still sitting there, nearly in awe. 

You realize you have to get out of there before she can possibly see you and this is the best time.

You stand, leaving your drink and walk toward the saloon doors just as Santana is singing the last of the lines. You need to close your tab with Puck the bartender and that’s going to take a minute and now you’re picking up the pace because you really, really don’t want to run into her.

You glance to the side as you are getting ready to slide through the doors and you see a man leaning against the wall by the stage with a huge grin on his face. You didn’t notice him before.

You can’t help yourself but to stop for a moment when the crowd applauds loudly as Santana thanks them in the microphone and walks off the stage….and right into the arms of the man who wraps her into a huge hug and kisses her quickly on her lips before guiding her away from the stage and….. right toward the doors where you’re standing.  
You push through them as fast as possible and walk rapidly to the front of the bar. You are trying not to make your fleeing so obvious but there is absolutely no way you are going to let her see you now. You shove through the crowd by the door and get out to the patio before you break into a trot now that you have some room. You are around the corner to your car before you stop and try to catch your breath. You try to convince yourself that the pang in your heart is just nerves because you were afraid to be caught but your head isn’t buying it. 

You unlock the door, turn the motor over and exhale deeply in your car, trying to collect your thoughts. You did learn some things tonight so there is that. Santana sings. Santana has a boyfriend. Santana sings sad songs in anonymity at an open mic night at a bar called Nowhere. 

Santana has a boyfriend.

You pull out from behind the bar where you had parked and turn left and back to your apartment.

It’s only a little after 11 when you get home but you are done for the night. Exhausted.

You feel hot and sticky so you jump into the shower and after drying off and lotioning up you slip into your tank top and panties and slide into bed. Lord Tubbington jumps up and walks over your legs to assume his position at the bottom of your bed after you have given him a few scratches under his chin.  
You move to turn off the light and see your phone on the night stand along with the business card reminding you that Santana is expecting you to meet her tomorrow at 4p. Like you have a chance in hell of forgetting.

The room nearly goes dark with a flip of the switch of your lamp but there is still a small light glowing from your phone as you turn over and away from it. You’re so tired you know you will be asleep within seconds.

After a minute goes by the light on your phone is gone, signaling your download as complete. You added a new song to your iTunes account.

Alone.


	4. Chapter 3

Your feet are flat on the floor but that isn't keeping your right leg from bouncing up and down as you check out the latest news or flip to your Facebook page. You aren’t really reading what’s on your phone though, lets not kid ourselves. You are really checking the time. 

Again. 

You are sitting in the small waiting room just like you were two days ago but there is no Rachel here today. It's Sunday and the offices on this floor are fairly empty. You didn't see a single person when you entered the building said for the guy who mans the help desk right by the front doors. The building is next door to the police station. There is actually a skyway between them via the 3rd floor but you didn't want to use it because that would mean going into the station and risk being seen. You just don't want to explain why you are there again when you were given the weekend off.

You look down at your phone again.

It's 3:56. 

You keeping telling yourself you aren't nervous because you’re meeting with Santana. You are nervous because you aren’t sure what's in store for you during this scheduled meeting. Obviously they are recruiting you for something. They have been watching and documenting you for several years now. You feel like you are a sleeper spy or something and have just gotten the call to begin your true mission. You are nervous about what all this means for you. Long term.

But you can’t help but admit….

You haven't felt this alive in a long time.

Sure you get an adrelin rush when you are solving a case or chasing down a bad guy but this seems different. You seem on the precipice of a life changing event. You don't know that you want to take the next step and yet you don't know how you could choose otherwise.

Your leg is almost sore from the bouncing but you hardly notice. 

3:57.

You almost thought about being late on purpose. Give her a little taste of her own medicine but that was an idea you squashed pretty quickly. While you haven’t known her but for a few days you find yourself not wanting to disappoint her. Plus you feel a little guilty about sneaking around and ending up at Nowhere last night. 

That makes you think again about the man she was with. The man watching her sing. You wondered a lot this morning about who he was to her. Maybe he wasn’t her boyfriend. Maybe he was just a good friend? No matter how long you think about this you know you are fooling yourself. The way he looked at her was full of love. But in your haste to get out of there you didn’t really see how she looked at him. Was the adoration returned? 

3:58.

You are a good detective. A very good detective. You are prepared for whatever she throws your way. You only wish you knew what it was. You don’t like going into a meeting blindly. No case file to review before discussing. No reports of blood spatter or witnesses to get your thoughts flowing. The only thing you can focus on is the memories of the limited time you have spent with her. Santana. The unreadable expression on her face as she drank the tequila. As she looked you dead in the eye in her office the first time when she said she needed your help. “We” need your help, you correct yourself. But the way her eyes bore into you made you feel this was more than a ‘we’ situation. 

3:59

You stare at your phone. You never knew on the iPhone that the second hand of the clock on the dash actually moved. That reminds you that you need to go ahead and pay your cell bill so you reach for your wallet and open the app on your phone. Flipping open your wallet you see the empty spot where your debit card usually resides. Instant confusion takes over your face. 

“Where the hell…” you begin but then you stop mid thought and sentence.

Nowhere.

You started a tab at the bar with Puck but in your haste to avoid being spotted you left it there. You didn’t have any plans to go back any time soon but now you realize that wasn’t going to be an option. You would have to go by and pick up your card and the sooner, the better. Perhaps when this meeting was over you could head over there and slip in and out before….

You hear the door open a split second before you look up. Your eyes move toward the sound and you find yourself meeting hers. It really feels like she can take your breath away with a simple glance.

“Afternoon Detective,” Santana states simply and walks back out of view leaving the door open as a gesture that you should follow her in.

You gather your belongings and mentally challenge yourself to remember that this is a professional situation and one that undoubtedly has some element of importance and perhaps danger associated with it. Regardless of the individuals involved you know it is time to get your game face on. 

And when you close the door behind you, you feel composed and confident.

You take a seat back on the couch that you first found yourself on two days ago. Wow – seems like a long time but really less than 48 hours – and after pulling out a small pad of paper and pen you cross your legs and lean back ready for whatever comes next.

Santana is sitting in the chair again and opening up the laptop. You smile at the sight of her dressed casually like you are – slacks that are not too formal and a shirt that is not too fancy. Sunday wear. Off duty wear. 

“Good afternoon to you as well Santana,” you comment as she settles back in her chair like you did on the couch. “And I know it has been a day since we have seen each other, please remember that given our new working relationship you can call me Brittany,” you finish with a smile.

“Two,” she replies.

You look at her with slight confusion.

“It’s been two days since we have seen one another but yes, I do recall you saying I can call you Brittany,” she continued. “I just like to keep my bearings in more public settings such as the outer office and the waiting room. You never know who can wander in there and I don’t want to seem overly friendly with the Detective I am supposed to be counseling.”

You know she is two steps ahead of you when it comes to this kind of game but you don’t want to look like a novice. “Got it. Makes perfect sense.” 

“May I offer you something to drink before we get started?” She gestures again to the small refrigerator located close to her desk.

You decline with a shake of your head silently noting from her demeanor that this is not a friendly conversation. This is business and she is ready to get down to it. You haven’t forgotten what this is about – what little you know which really is nothing.

Santana takes a deep breath and moves the laptop to the side table and straightens in her chair.

“Brittany, we need you to go undercover.”

You figured it was going to be something like this but you still don’t know exactly what she means.

“This is not something that will mean the change in your daily life as a Detective. This is an undercover assignment within the department and will involve some work on the streets. You can tell no one, not even your partner Sam. You will check in with me on a daily basis via phone or email and we will meet weekly face to face under the guise of this counseling session in connection with the shooting.”

She pauses for a moment allowing you time to process her statements and for questions.

“You want me to be a narc in my own fucking department?,” disbelief evident in your words.

You can tell Santana doesn’t quite know how to reply but she sits quietly, the words forming in her head before she responds with… 

“Yes.”

You don’t really know what to say.

“I need a lot more detail as to what I am supposed to be looking for in order to report it back to you. What is going on here Santana? You aren’t giving me any information but you are asking me to provide information and I don’t even know what you are looking for. I don’t understand what you expect from me Santana,” you finish softly.  
Her eyes soften in response to the tone of your voice but only for a moment. 

“I know Brittany. It’s a lot to take in and I honestly don’t know all the information either. I am a rung on the ladder and am being told information and advising you. The powers that be said it was time to make contact and I have. That it is time for our relationship to begin. That’s why you are here. Right now to listen and be aware that you are going to be called on from time to time to give information that you may know. Or you may not know. When we meet face to face I will have questions to ask you and you may know the answers or you may not. This part is the beginning for us. To learn routines and compatibility and adherence to schedules that we set. To begin to foster trust between us. Implicit trust. You and I.”

You watch her move herself to the edge of the chair as she continues, ”To an extent we are partners now too. Perhaps even more intimately than you and Sam because we are the only ones who know each other in this capacity. I know more from my standpoint than you do about how this works and I am sorry for that. It isn’t exactly fair to you but it has led us to this moment and to something that is bigger than either of us. Something that has meant all these months of watching and recording from a distance were worth it. That you have what it takes. That you are the one that can help. Can you do this? Can you help us? Can you help me?”

You feel like you would jump in front of a train for her if she asked you to after that speech but you try to remain in control. It isn’t easy seeing her eyes wide and her chest rising and falling as she tries to catch her breath from her impassioned plea. You know this must be important. Equally you know it is important to her. It is written all over her face. You can feel it in your gut. And even before the words come out of your mouth you know there is no way you aren’t going to see this through.

“I’ll help in whatever way I can Santana. But I need to trust you and to do so I need information. I need questions answered. I need to know that you have my back like any partner would. Can you do that? Can you commit to it? Can I trust you without question?” You know that if the answer is no then this will be over before it has even begun.

And you know she knows it too.

“Of course,” she replies letting out a breath that she was seemingly holding. “I will answer whatever questions you throw at me and we will build this together.”  
“And Brittany,” she says looking you square in the eyes, the intensity and electricity hitting you all at once, “you can trust me. I will do whatever it takes to make you know that.”

You lean back and check your watch.

It’s 4:07.

“Let’s get started.”

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It is almost 5:30p when you walk out of Santana’s office. Your mind is spinning from the information she has given you. She talked for nearly an hour and you only listened, taking it in and ask a few questions here and there. She talked a lot about how she came by the information she had on you – mostly from word of mouth backed up with facts and surveillance over the past 10 months. The surveillance part bothers you a bit but there was no sense in arguing about it. The personality tests you took as a police officer and then as a detective provided a lot of insight as well Santana had told you. She shared that you would be amazed on how much information you can glean off the web as well through social media such as Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.

You made a mental note to watch your posts from here on out. 

You hold a small Nike duffel bag as you walk to your car, the sun just beginning to set behind the trees that line the parking lot. In it holds a file of information which includes an email address that you are to use and hers as well for you to be able to send items without worrying about a trace. There is a burner cell phone as well. The only number programmed in it is hers. She told you to only to use the phone from your house or your car. You should not carry it with you.

You told her you felt like Carrie Mathison in Homeland but she didn’t seem to get the joke. Maybe she doesn’t watch that show. 

Maybe she doesn’t like jokes.

You didn’t learn much about her which is what you were hoping might happen but there was only so much she was willing to share. You wanted to explain to her that part of trust between partners is knowing who they are. What makes them tick, their hobbies, their dreams, even their secrets. It’s more than a friend. It is someone who is willing to put their life on the line for you. And you for them in return. You know Santana is aware of this but you know it doesn’t happen in the course of one conversation. That kind of trust is earned, built and demonstrated with actions.

It takes time and it takes interaction. A lot. Of both.

She told you she would be in touch when you left but you didn’t ask her in what manner. She didn’t volunteer it so you find yourself walking to your car trying to rehash all of the conversation in her office. You’re mentally exhausted and ready to go home. You have to report to work tomorrow at 1p.

You also have to go get your debit card.

You open the trunk with your key fob and place the duffel bag inside. Closing it you make your way to the driver’s side door more and more acutely aware of your surroundings. Your senses are heightened remembering her last words to you before you left the safe realm of Dr. Chase Strathorn’s office…

“Be safe Brittany,” she had reminded you. “I know you are an excellent detective but we don’t know everything we are dealing with here yet.”

You start the car with the push button and head out of the parking lot. As you make the turn toward the exit from your row, you glance up. The lights are still on in her office.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nowhere is only about a 20 minute drive considering it’s Sunday and traffic is light. Most people are in for the night gearing up for work and school tomorrow. Normal people , you think to yourself. You wonder what that life must be like.

You pull into the parking lot of the bar and see there aren’t a lot of patrons as you walk inside. There are a few guys hanging by the pool table and a few others at the bar where a TV sits showing two NFL teams squaring off. You glance toward the swinging doors that you went through last night but there is only darkness. The back part must be closed considering it’s not a Friday or Saturday. No open mic tonight. 

“Hey there Blondie!” Puck is behind the bar with a big shit eating grin on his face.

His grin is contagious given he seems glad to see you. But then again you are the only woman in the bar right now.

“What’ll be,” he asks as you lean against the bar considering there are no stools. 

“Nothing tonight. Just stopping by to get my debit card,” you tell him. “I left it here last night when I opened my tab with you.”

He looks at you puzzled. “We don’t keep the cards when a tab is opened. We swipe and then give them back. Are you sure you didn’t drop it?”

Now you are starting to panic a bit because now that you're back in the familiar surrounding, you vaguely do remember him handing it back to you when he gave you the Bacardi. 

“Can you check and make sure no one turned it in? It’s an orange card – first name Brittany.”

He turns behind him by the cash register and rummages through a small box filled with what appears to be cards and IDs. One of the teams must have scored because there is some cheering from guys watching the game. Puck turns back to you empty handed. 

“Sorry Brittany, doesn’t look like it’s here.”

You really don’t want the hassle of having to deal with this right now and will need to check your jeans from the night before when you get home. But you also remember you were back in the corner last night. Maybe it fell when you were shocked by the evening’s entertainment.

“I went into the back showroom there to watch the open mic performances,” you tell Puck. “Do you mind if I run back there to see if I dropped it?”

“No problem Brittany. Lights are right inside the swinging doors on the right when you walk in. Sure I can’t fix you a drink for when you come back?”

You hesitate for a moment since you really should be getting home but one drink won’t hurt right? Something to take the edge off. “Bacardi and Diet coming up,” Puck says repeating the order you gave him over your shoulder as you headed back to the showroom.

You turn the lights on but the room has a totally different feel than it did 24 hours ago. The lights are too bright and make the stage seem too small. When Santana was on it last night singing it seemed huge, larger than life. Dark and full of secrets. Like the aura she gives off. You don’t know anything and you want to know everything. You also want to know who the man is that held her as she left the stage. You are a detective after all.

You look to where you were sitting last night and glance around the floor hoping against hope you’ll find it. No dice. You take one last look at the stage as you walk back through, hitting the lights behind you.

Puck is looking at you when you push through the swinging doors and offers a sympathetic shrug when you shake your head. He has your drink ready when you get back to the bar.

“Not your fault,” you tell him after he apologizes. “I was the one that left it or dropped it. I obviously didn’t put it back in my wallet like I should have. I am going to cross my fingers and hope I left it in my car or in my jeans pocket. I’ll check when I get home.”

You lift the glass and take a drink. It’s strong but it feels good right about now. You’re glad you ordered it.

Puck walks over to take an order from the pool table guys and you face out for a moment into the place, elbows against the bar behind you. It’s homey and small for a more intimate setting during the week and yet the backroom is large enough to accommodate a small band or DJ – even a decent sized dance floor if the tables were moved. It isn’t anything unique or special - just your neighborhood bar like Seasons that you enjoy. Maybe you should mention something to John about them having open mic or something like that every once in awhile….the regulars would like that.

Regulars.

You remember what Rachel told you in the bathroom – if Santana is anywhere on Saturday night it was Nowhere. You immediately wonder if Santana is a regular here on Saturdays… and if that might mean she lives somewhere nearby.

You see from the corner of your eye as Puck walks over to where you are standing and you turn sideways to him. “Are you ready for another?” he asks a little amused since you have consumed nearly all of it.

You make a quick decision and it isn’t about the drink.

“Sure I’ll go another,” you say with a slight smile. “I really enjoyed the open mic night last night. It was my first time in here. Do you guys do that every Saturday?”

“Sure do,” Puck replied. “Sometimes it lasts longer than others given the people who might sign up but we usually have it done by midnight. Every now and then the owner will book a more well known band and then we might cancel it. But we have some really good people who sing so most of the newbies that might sign up don’t go up after they see some of the regulars.”

He chuckles a bit as he hands you round two. “It ain’t karaoke for drunks!”

You stir drink for a moment watching the ice cubes swirl. “I gathered that with the few performers I heard in there. They were really good!” 

You know from your years as a detective that most of the time people love to talk. By that you mean people who have nothing to hide. People who are quiet are usually secretive for a reason. You only need be a good listener to learn more than you need to know.

You listen to Puck talk about how he wishes he could sing as well as some of the people who come in on Saturdays. You listen to him talk about how his real passion is playing the guitar but that those gigs are few and far between and certainly don’t make the money that tending bar does. You listen and sip your drink. 

A guy from the group comes up to order another pitcher and gives you a sly glance when Puck goes to fill one up.

“Wanna watch the game with us?” His smile is as sloppy as are his slurred words.

“No thanks,” you reply. “Sports are just not my thing.”

You can tell he isn’t going to be able to take the hint. 

“You just need a man to tell you about the rules,” he practically hiccups.

“I don’t need a man for anything,” you tell him.

Puck thankfully comes back with a full pitcher and Football Dude trips on back to his friends spilling a quarter of the pitcher along the way.

“Tough day?” Puck asks with a slight smirk having heard the conversation.

“You don’t know the half of it,” you reply. “I wish I could be carefree like the people that come in here and sing. Just forget about life for a while and unleash.”

Puck smiles at you in agreement.

“I saw a woman in here the other night that sang quite well,” you continue simply laying out the worm so Puck will take the bait. “She belted out some song in a way that made me think she should sing professionally.”

3, 2, 1….

“You must mean Santana,” Puck began wiping down some glasses with his bar towel. “She is a helluva singer and comes in most Saturdays. She usually does one song and is done but the place loves her. She has been coming here for as long as I have been around – 3 years. She is an interesting read.”

“How so,” you feign vague interest when really you want to jump over the bar and grab Puck by his mohawk in an effort to get him to speak faster.

Puck leaned into the bar, eyes on the game but still talking with you. “You can always tell what mood she is in by what she orders after she finished her song. If the song is more upbeat it is always a martini of sorts. If it is a more mellow, introspective number it’s something on the rocks. And if he is with her, it’s always a beer.”

“He? Her boyfriend?” you ask, dying slightly on the inside.

“I’m not sure,” Puck shrugs. “They never seem to go home together. Even when he’s here she always has the one drink and leaves and he sticks around often having a few of his own.” 

You could almost kiss Puck for this tidbit of information but refrain yourself, hiding your slight smile behind the glass as you take another drink.

“Well she sang awesome,” you tell him as if he doesn’t already know. 

Puck picks up another glass to dry. “Must have been a tough day for her as well last night.”

You try to stay silent but you find the words out before you can stop them.

“How do you figure?”

“Because last night when she finished the song and came over for her normal beer with him she looked a bit perturbed. Agitated I guess.”

Puck continued.

“And then she ordered a shot of tequila.”

_______________________________________________________________________________

After you finished your drink, you slapped a twenty dollar bill down for Puck and thanked him for the company and for trying to find your card. Then you got the fuck out of there before you started asking more questions that were glaringly inappropriate even to a bartender named Puck.

Driving home flashed by and you find yourself pulling into your spot in front of your place and sitting with the engine running for a minute, staring at nothing and thinking of everything. You turn off the key, pop open the trunk and take your newly acquired Nike bag out before hitting the button for the automatic close.

You open the door and come through it, dead bolting it like you have done a million times. Safety first. Lord Tubbington is there to greet you with a loud meow to welcome you home and remind you he’s hungry. 

“Give me a second Lord T.,” you absently mumble.

You walk into your room and place the duffel bag on your bed, unzipping it to remove the contents. The file is in a manila folder. You flip it open and see some papers but the inside flap shows an email address. The one you are to use. The cell phone lies on the bed. 

You pick it up and want so bad to look up the only number programmed and dial it but you don’t. You open the drawer to your nightstand and place it inside. 

Walking to the laundry room, you hope your debit card is in your jeans from the night before. You pick them up and search through all the pockets only to come up empty handed. 

You’re pissed.

You feed Lord T and grab yourself bottled water from the refrigerator. It’s early so you grab your iPhone and text Sam that you’re sorry you have been unavailable but you have been relishing in the quiet of your first weekend off in forever. Lies of course but you don’t want your partner to think he hasn’t been on your mind.

You lay against the pillow and flip the TV on, muting it though so while the light provides the background the noise doesn’t distract you. You are pulling your iPad out in order to sign into your back account and report your card as lost when your phone dings back at you.

Sam has replied advising no problem and asking if you want to stop buy his place tomorrow to eat and catch up. You shoot him back a “sure” followed by a cheesy emo-smiley face which you both abhor so that he knows you haven’t lost your sense of humor. Or your obnoxious personality. Whichever.

After advising the bank to place a hold on your card – and noting with a grateful sigh that there have been no unauthorized charges – you almost close up the tablet.

But instead you garb the manila folder and pull up the email address and password.

Fully expecting there an empty folder – jeez she did just give it to you earlier tonight – you are surprised to see that there are 2 unread messages.

You sit up a little higher on the bed, not wanting to admit your heart is beating a bit faster as you click on the first email that was sent at 6:47 – a little more than an hour from when you left her.

There is no subject and no salutation.

“Please meet me tomorrow at 3p in the office. Rachel will be there but just tell her you are there to pick up a file for a case. She will show you in. It shouldn’t take more than 5 minutes.”

No greeting. No goodbye. All business.

You feel deflated in one regard and yet elated all the same that you will get to see her again tomorrow, even for 5 minutes. Even a second would be enough.   
You delete the email and go to open the next. It was sent only 15 minutes ago.

“It is impossible to go through life without trust; that is to be imprisoned in the worst cell of all, oneself.’ ~ Graham Greene  
I have your back Brittany. One day you’ll know it without question.  
Sleep well.  
Santana”

Your heart is still racing when you turn off the light.


	5. Chapter 5

You park your car and check the time. It's around 11:30 and you told Sam you would meet him at his house before noon to check in on him before you have to report to the precinct again. Your weekend off is nearly over -- not that you felt like you got much down time given your new 'relationship' with Santana. 

Well you did get to hit a new bar so there’s that. 

Sam's house is a cute little one story with a few bedrooms and a nice yard. There’s a gorgeous red front door with a complicated stained glass pattern and mulch all around the bushes that are kept neat and trim. Everything about it is welcoming. 

Even the cute little gnome by the three steps leading onto the small landing that marks the entrance seems to be smiling at you when you walk up the front path.   
Mercedes had made sure when she moved in 8 months ago that their house reflected their life together and not the ‘man-pad’ that Sam has lived in throughout his early 20’s. She was good for him and they were good together. She was a mess when you came and got her that night on the way to the hospital.

You hit the doorbell and stand back a little, looking up and down the street but seeing nothing worth noting. You are turning back when the door flies open to your friend and partner, Sam sporting a sling around his arm and a grin from ear to ear.

"Thank God you're here," he tells you as he uses his good arm to wrap you in a small hug. You’re somewhat of a touchy-feely person but not as much with the guys. Or without tequila. Sam knows he is one of the few that can get away with it.

You have always been a bit unusual about your personal space.

"Wow, miss me?," you ask him as you squeeze back gently, mindful that he is still in some pain. You can tell it must be slightly controlled by the light sheen in his eyes. "Good painkillers?" you chuckle as you walk in behind him into the small foyer.

Sam shuts the door. "Shut up!,” he punches your arm playfully. “You know I hate taking that kind of stuff but it does take the edge off. You wouldn’t believe how much it hurts getting shot."

You wince a little at the memory. "I hope I never do," you tell him as you reach out and lightly touch his shoulder. Your voice lowers to a whisper. "I can’t tell you how much that scared me."

He leads you into the kitchen where he has a pot of coffee already brewed and the newspaper on the table. You move it to the side as you sit down in the chair and he pours you a cup.

“Really,” you say to him as he places the mug in front of you and turns to pour a cup of his own, “how are you doing?”

His arm shakes just a little bit pouring the coffee for himself and you’re not sure if it is because he is using his weaker arm or if it is the memory of everything. 

“I am doing ok. Mercedes has been great you know making sure I was set up once I got out of the hospital. She just went back to work at the school today; they had let her off all of last week but I told her I was fine now. I have lowered my meds dosage and I can do most everything without help. The doctor says it won’t be long until I can get this sling off, do some physical therapy and get back to work myself.”

He sits down next to you with the cheeky grin. “Plus this daytime TV is killing me. There’s only so much Ellen you can watch!”

You smile back at him. “Don’t talk about my people that way.”

“She’s only half your people,” he says taking a sip after blowing a bit to cool off the beverage. “You bisexuals don’t get to claim ‘your people’ every opportunity!”  
You have missed his silly banter. He always knows how to lighten the mood when it is a topic that particularly scares him. You’re sure that this whole experience has made him play out scenarios in his head of where he could have ended up if the bullet had hit a little more to the left.

You sit in comfortable silence for a minute and look out the blinds that wrap the windows in the kitchen. It is a gorgeous day outside. Sam’s windows are open and you can hear the birds and smell the grass and feel the light breeze. You wonder what it would be like to be sitting at a kitchen table enjoying coffee with someone else. Someone with dark hair. You wonder how she takes her coffee.

It’s only been a few moments but you’re already down the path in your head. You don’t even realize you’re daydreaming like that until Sam says “Earth to Brittany.”

You let it go for the time being and turn back to Sam.

“Do you want to talk about what happened,” you ask him. You don’t want to make him upset with it being so fresh and you have read the report they took from him in the hospital right after but you’re curious to see if he remembers anything else – anything more. 

“I remember most of it but there are a few areas where I wonder if it really happened or if I am confused. We got the call to the apartment and as soon as we knocked on the door the woman answered and we saw the guy run and chased him into the stairwell.”

Sam looks uncomfortable, lost even a bit in the haze of the painkillers and the memory. You don’t want to push him. You know him well enough to know that he likes to process things in his own way, in his own time. You have no problem giving him the space he needs to talk about it and remember it at the pace he wants.

You on the other hand remember everything. Things Sam wouldn’t because he wasn’t in the lead or he was down when it was happening. The facial expression of the woman when she opened the door and you told her you were there about the call for a domestic violence. How Sam’s voice had echoed in the hallway identifying you as police when you began you pursuit when William ran. The way the darkness of the hallway dimmed your vision when you kicked the door open with your gun drawn and yelled for Williams to stop running. Your pace as you ran down the stairs thinking he had gone all the way down only to find out too late he had doubled back onto the second floor and come out behind you both. The look in Sam’s eyes as they met yours for a split second before he fell in the stairwell after he’d taken the bullet. The smell of the gunpowder when you shot back at the door with the bullets going through the still present opening as it swung closed, hitting Williams in the process all the while trying to find your radio to tell dispatch you had an officer down.

Just thinking about it made your head swim.

“We can talk about it later,” you tell Sam. “I just wanted to make sure you were ok. You know we will have plenty of time when you’re back in the car with me.”  
He looks a bit grateful so you know this was a good stopping point.

You switch to a safer topic. “How is Mercedes doing?”

You visit with him talking about nothing of consequence and see behind him that the clock on the stove is registering 12:45. Sam knows it’s about time for you to come on for the day and stands, taking your coffee mug to the sink.

“It was great catching up,” you tell him, “and I am happy to take you to Breadstix when you feel up to it so you can get your fix. I am not sure how you have made it this long without it.” The comments are playful but he knows your relationship – both professionally and personally – is rock solid. You can see in his eyes the truth – you are so relieved he is ok. 

He walks you to the door.

“Maybe we can grab lunch on Wednesday next week. I have my first meeting with my shrink over by the precinct then,” he tells you. “I guess they want to make sure I am working through any post-traumatic stress in conjunction with the physical therapy so I can get back to it as soon as possible. I know I left you a message about it the other day and you were undoubtedly enjoying your weekend off but how did your appointment go?”

You freeze just a little. You should have been better prepared to answer that question but you’re not. “Um, yeah it was ok. You know the same old bullshit questions about how did this make you feel and how did that make you feel. Blah, blah, blah.” You are trying to brush it off but you know he is asking not really to hear how you reply but because he is nervous about his own appointment.

“But did you like him?” Sam asks as he opens the door for you.

“Her,” you say not thinking it through. 

“Your shrink is a woman huh?,” Sam replies with a smirk on his face.

You make sure you don’t stutter when you say “yeah, my shrink’s a woman but whatever they’re all the same. I mean what do you expect from a police shrink who probably has too many years on the job and is only going through the motions. It was fine but she was a little predictable with her questions.” 

Predictable? Nothing could be further from the truth there but you just want to say as little as possible to avoid a full blown conversation. You hate lying to Sam. Or not lying but just not elaborating.

You turn to him as he leaves the door open and you start down the front path. “Let’s plan on a lunch date on Wednesday next week. I’ll meet you at Breadstix at noon.”

Sam walks you out toward your car. You can’t help thinking that you are going to see her soon. Even if it’s only a few moments the thought of it makes your heart race. 

“I’m so ready to tear up some breadsticks,” he tells you as you open the door and slide behind the wheel. “I will make sure my shrink gets me in early enough that we can meet beforehand and I can tell you all about my session at lunch.”

Your gut goes again. You don’t know why but it does. “Hey, Sam just out of curiosity who are you seeing next week?”

“Hang on,” Sam tells you as he closes his door for you and pulls his phone out of his pocket. You just have time to start your car and roll the window down when he finds what he is looking for in his phone. 

“Dr. Chase Strathorn ,” he tells you.

You try your best not to let Sam see the range of emotions that are bubbling just under the surface as you tell him you’ll call him later to firm it all up and check in on him.  
You also try your best not to peal out with your car as you leave his neighborhood but by the time you are on the interstate headed downtown you’re going at least 85. 

Your mind is going even faster.

Fuck you Santana. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

You squeal into a parking space at the precinct with your car and take 5 minutes to sit there and try to compose yourself. Santana has Sam going to see her next week? You are so livid you cannot formulate a mature response in your head or otherwise. She specifically told you not to mention anything to Sam and yet she is dragging him into this full force as well.

Has she been watching him too?

Somehow that seems worse than anything else. You mentally chide yourself: do you think you are special or something? You feel possessive almost.  
You try and shake the disappointment. But all you can remember is the email from last night and how she promised to earn your trust, to have your back. It hasn’t even been 24 hours and she has blown that bullshit lip service sky high. You are angry, you are tired and you don’t understand why she is doing this to you, to Sam.

You are not interested in waiting another two hours to find out either.

You take the stairs to the Dr. Strathron’s office two at a time and you’re breathing heavy when you get to the outer door. You take a short minute to compose yourself before opening the door. You look over and see Rachel at her desk, typing away at her laptop.

“One second,” she says not bothering to look up.

It doesn’t take you but the second Rachel is giving you to see the waiting room holds just the two of you. You aren’t waiting for an additional one as you stride past her through the waiting room and toward the door to the main office. Rachel nearly gasps when she looks up and finally sees that it’s you. She stands quickly and in a hushed whisper says “Brittany! You can’t go in there!”

You turn to her with what you hope is an unreadable expression. “Is she not there?”

“Your appointment with her is not until 3,” Rachel tells you as she steps closer to where you are standing right outside the door. 

“I am well aware of when I was instructed to see Lt. Lopez,” all formalitlies now, “but that’s not what I asked. Is she not in there?”

“But…. but your appointment isn’t until 3,” Rachel stutters beginning to show a little of that nervousness you saw when you confronted her in the bathroom about leaving the business card on your work phone.

From her demeanor and her response you already have the answer to your question. You open the door and see Santana in the chair behind the big mahgony desk looking up, staring at you.

Rachel, not to be undone, makes one feeble attempt to talk you back out of the room before Santana says “Rachel. It’s ok. Why don’t you go down and grab you some lunch. Everything is fine here.”

Everything is so not fine but it’s hard to keep up your motivation, your anger because the entire time Santana was talking to Rachel her eyes never broke contact with yours. 

Fucking electric.

You barely hear Rachel close the door behind you.

“Brittany,” Santana says smoothly and she rises from the chair and comes around to stand in front of you, “I assume since you decided to come here nearly two hours before our pre-arranged time that something important has come up? Otherwise weren’t you supposed to report to the precinct,” she looks at her watch on a delicate wrist, “about 8 minutes ago?”

“I went and saw Sam today,” you tell her watching her for a reaction. Did she stiffen just bit? You’re not sure but you continue. “Apparently Santana, he has an appointment with his shrink next week.”

She looks at you and tilts her head only slightly, those chocolate eyes never leaving yours even for a moment. “And this you need to share with me earlier than our schedule time, why?

“Because he is scheduled to see fucking Dr. Chase Strathorn and I’m telling you that if you want me to continue in this scenario then that is absolutely not happening! Sam could never handle this. He has family and people that love him and that he loves back. I won’t agree to it Santana. If Sam is brought into this, I will not help you!!” You don’t know exactly when you started to raise your voice but you do know that you were loud enough for Rachel to have heard had she not been granted her leave. 

Santana looks at you and whispers. “Brittany, stop.”

You glance down to see she has laid her hand against your arm, her touch so light and yet you find it overwhelms you. You didn't realize she had come so close during your rant. You look up at her and only then does she break eye contact, looking to see where her skin is on yours and she slowly draws it away.

“I told you that you have to trust me. Sam has indeed been assigned to see Dr. Strathorn. But Brittany, Dr. Strathorn is real. He is a psychiatrist here that helps others in the station. This office has his name plate on the door but that’s only for show. When Sam goes to see him next week he will be on the 5th floor. He will not be here.”

Your rapid heartbeat slows a bit as Santana continues. “Brittany, this operation involves you and I only. I have no plans or instructions to involve anyone else and if that changes I would certainly inform you. You and I are a team. I would not withhold such pertinent information from you.”

You feel better and worse all at the same time. Better because Sam is not involved in this. Worse because you have demonstrated to Santana yet again that you do not trust her, that you have no faith in her or what she’s saying to you.

And you both know it. 

“Brittany?” She has stepped back a few feet to gain some space between the two of you. To re-establish your boundaries again physically as well as in every other way.

You’re not thinking straight. 

“Have dinner with me tonight.”

It’s not a question and you blurt it out before you realize you were even going to say it.

For the first time since you met her, Santana is startled. You see it. 

“I don’t think that is a good idea.”

But her words are not convincing. She takes an almost unconscious step back towards you.

“Please,” you ask her. “I think it is an important step for us to form this bond of trust. You know so much about me and yet I don’t know anything about you. I don’t really even know what it is I am doing here. Have dinner with me, Santana. So we can talk.”

Santana begins to exert the same kind of control you have seen in your prior meetings. She slips back into it as she steps away from you and back around her desk.  
“That’s not a good idea Brittany,” she says with a sense of finality. “Our time seen together anywhere public should be limited. But if you want we can arrange a meeting in the next few days to sit down further here in the office.”

You know the topic is now closed for discussion. “I’ll be back in touch and we can set something up,” she tells you and she settles again in her chair behind the desk.  
“Well what about 3p?” You’re here right now and God knows after this shit you don’t feel like coming back to this office for what was originally your scheduled conversation.  
“Don’t worry about it,” she replies now searching around on her desk for a pen. “We can talk later about it when we reschedule.” She is not meeting your eyes. “Check your email later and we’ll figure something out then.”

She finds the pen and begins writing something down on a pad of paper which you take as your signal that it’s time to go.

You don’t look back as you walk out and shut the door behind you. 

\------------------------------------------------------------

You walk into the floor housing your colleagues and head to your desk. You were just here on Saturday and not much has changed. Still a bunch of letters on the desk and paperwork too. You always hated doing the paperwork behind the scenes. Sam was much better at that part of the job and you think selfishly it might be good for him to ease back into it when he can by spending his first few days back behind the desk. 

He’d appreciate your humor about it.

But only if you fed him Breadstix. A lot.

You check the clock on the wall and it reads 1:10p. You had well-wishers galore on Saturday when you came but now everyone is back to it. A quick smile and nod of the head acknowledging your presence is all you get and frankly all you expected. This is a job and luckily most of your colleagues are dedicated to doing theirs well. Every one of course except for Karofsky who looks across the room at you with his typical disdain. “Had enough rest Pierce?” 

Jesus his voice is like fucking nails on a chalkboard. 

“Funny Karofsky.” You’re in no mood. “Guess that means I’ll be picking up and solving the cases that landed on your desk in my absence considering I am sure they are still lying there without result.”

He knows that his mere words are enough to make you want to punch someone in the face. You try to tell yourself that to keep you from responding to his goading but you just aren’t good at backing down. Sam is usually the buffer between you two but with him out Karofsky knows even better that pushing your buttons will result in an ill-timed response.

Ill-timed in this case because just as you are finishing your sentence, walking up behind you is your boss Will Schuester.

“Pierce, can I see you in my office?”

You follow him and shut the door behind you, hearing the low chuckle of Karofsky as you do.

“Fucking asshole,” you murmur under your breath as you take a seat across from Schuester’s desk.

“How are you Brittany?” You could have guessed this conversation was coming but you really don’t feel like having it.

“I’m fine Will,” you tell him with as much sincerity as you can muster. “Glad to be back here and ready to get started back on my cases.”

“Well that’s what I wanted to talk with you about,” he continued sitting a little straighter in his chair. “I want you to take your time and ease back into it. I don’t want you to feel like you have to save the world. I have had detectives under my direction have this kind of trauma and they might think they are perfectly fine and one day they discover that’s not the case. Or they might seek solace in other ways. Harmful ways.”

You know he means well but you just aren’t in the frame of mind to hear all this. Sometimes he seems like he wanted to be some motivational speaker and not the head of a police department. 

“Just put in a few hours today. Do some paperwork, ease back into it. I don’t want to see you here past 7, ok? And no new cases this week.”

“I promise you Captain, I am ok.” Maybe if you make it sound more formal then he will lighten up and let you out of here and get back to doing your job.  
He acts like he didn’t hear you. “Are you seeing the psychiatrist?.”

You again are caught off guard but still quick to reply with a yes.

“Good,” Will continues, “I think that they have you set for an appointment every week or more if needed for the next six weeks. I will be kept informed as to the progress you are making but only as an outsider. Anything you say in your meetings will Dr. Strathorn is strictly confidential.”

‘No shit’ you think to yourself. It seems even your superior has no clue what’s really going on.

“Thanks Will for your concern, truly, but I am ready to get back to work.” You tell him and shift to the edge of your chair as if to signal you are ready for the conversation to be over.

Either he understands your body language or he’s done with you too because he simply responds with “Then get to it.”

You keep the door open when you leave and head back to your desk.

Breadstix or not, Sam would never forgive you. You better get some of this paperwork done.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

You’ve been at the stacks of files for nearly three hours and it seems like you haven’t made a dent when your cell phone dings signaling the arrival of a text message. You stretch and welcome to break as you pick up your phone and allow the fingerprint sensor to do its job unlocking to the message screen.

“Cherokee Park. 8p Tuesday” reads the first line.

“Important,” reads the next.

The number is still blocked.

You stare at the message for a minute wondering if this is indeed the same person who sent you the text last week that you didn’t get to because you were otherwise engaged. And by engaged you mean trying to determine where the blood was coming from while your partner was on the ground. 

“Artie?” you wonder as you make a note on your phone’s calendar and jot down a quick line in your notebook.

Like all detectives you use technology where you can but there is something about the convenience of a small pad of paper. Stereotypical but true nonetheless.  
You don’t think it could be anyone else but Artie given that is your usual meeting spot but you are a bit confused --- he never sends his messages to meet through a blocked number. You’ll have to make sure you use caution tomorrow night given everything going on. 

Should you let Santana know? You consider that for a moment and determine a quick email later tonight when you are home and settled would be appropriate. You don’t want to risk it from the computers here at the office. ‘Good job Brittany.’ you think to yourself. Way to follow orders.

You put the phone back down start typing again at your keyboard. Only a few more hours of this shit and you can go home. 

\--------------------------------------------------

The clock reads just after 8 p.m. when you put your bag on the floor next to your bed and flop back on it. Your feet are hanging off the edge but you can’t really move. You’re utterly exhausted from what was only the equivalent of a half day at the office. That many hours of straight paperwork is enough to fog your brain -- it’s a lot different sitting at a computer screen or six hours then beating the streets all day long. It might not make sense but it’s not how your mind works. Regardless you are shattered.

It’s not even dark yet but you close the blinds in your apartment and turn on the kitchen light, opening the fridge to see little in the ways of edible food there. You simply don’t feel like preparing anything and were hoping against hope that you had some leftover anything. No such luck.

You grab a bottled water and take yourself back to your bedroom, draining half the contents on your way. You sit in bed with leave the light on and pull your hair out of the high ponytail you were sporting in the office. You feel lighter already and you grab the remote to turn on your TV.

Flipping channels reveals nothing on and you wonder if you shouldn’t go down to Seasons and grab a bite. Or a drink. Or both. You feel so tired though you just don’t even want to move.

Thirty minutes goes by and you’re only half watching some show about high school outcast students that sing and dance and you feel yourself starting to drift. You reach over to turn off the light and accidently knock your long ago consumed water bottle off the nightstand and onto the floor. Groaning you turn onto your side and reach down to pick it up, randomly feeling because you’re trying to balance your body on the bed when you take hold of the cord that holds your laptop. 

Remembering that it’s there wakes you a bit and you pull it up to email Santana about the meeting at the park tomorrow. You log in and open your account to check your messages. Your inbox shows there is a new one waiting for you.

You open it while your adrenaline kicks starts your heart again. You’re definitely awake now. 

Again, no salutation is present but the message makes you almost drop the laptop.

“Maybe it’s not such a bad idea. Breadstix? 9?” 

You hardly remember your reply to the email other than it was an affirmative.

You grab your phone, keys and wallet and head out the door as fast as you can.

\-----------------------------------------------------  
She is already been seated at a booth when you come in. Breadstix closes at 10 during the week so you know this won’t be a long drawn out dinner but you don’t care. You’d take the opportunity to sit with her across a table on equal ground for 5 minutes if that was all you could.

She has a glass of red wine and she is taking a small sip when she notices you walking toward the table. She holds the glass to her lips for just a split second too long, not drinking it but not putting it down either. Because she is looking at you. She seems to gather herself as you sit in the booth across from her, finishing the swallow of the wine and places the glass on the table.

“I am glad you were able to make it, Brittany,” she says, taking the red napkin that is sitting beside her fork and placing it lightly in her lap.

“I am glad you changed your mind Santana,” you reply to her as you echo her movements with your own napkin.

She chuckles lightly and swirls the wine in the glass as if she was still trying to release its flavors. “Well I guess I can ask you what’s good here huh?” She is obviously alluding to her private knowledge of the amount of time you have spent here with Sam. Almost like she is trying to make light of the situation that you both you know are in.

As if to somehow emphasize the point, the waiter picks this exact time to come up to the table and smile at you knowingly. “Hello there,” he says to you, flipping out his little pad to take your drink order.

“The usual?,” he asks referring to your typical unsweet tea. You come here when you’re on duty so you have never ordered anything alcoholic. Tonight though is different.  
“Actually, I’ll have the same as my friend here,” you tell him as you nod toward the wine that Santana is again taking a small sip from. She arches her eyebrow in response to your statement but manages to wait until the server walks away to get your drink before commenting.

“I didn’t know you drank wine.”

You smile at her slightly, feeling a little flirty when you reply. “For every one thing you know about me Santana there are two that you don’t. Not everything can be gleaned from a report.”

She doesn’t respond and doesn’t need to because the waiter is setting down your wine moments later.

“Do you ladies know what you might like for dinner tonight?” He is pulling out the pad again and you get the sense that he is rushing you a bit since you are one of the last tables to have patrons and are certainly the newest ones to sit down. 

“Why don’t you order for us?”

You are a little taken aback by how bold you are in saying that to Santana but end up being pleasantly surprised when she asks about the specials and proceeds to getting you the minestrone soup and the broiled lobster oreganata. She also requests the penne alla vodka and a ceasar salad – hold the anchovies - for herself.

“Will there be anything else,” the waiter asks after he has complimented Santana on her choices.

She eyes you from across the table.

“Would you care for the shrimp cocktail as an appetizer?,” she asks inquistively.

“Only if you’re buying,” you reply as you mentally remind yourself this is not a date.

Santana’s smile widens like she is the only one in on a private joke but tells the waiter that you both will skip the appetizer option.

And with that he is gone and you find yourself not knowing exactly what comes next.

Santana looks at you from across the table. She’s still in her suit from this morning but she has taken the jacket off to reveal a simple white blouse that frames her beautifully. The necklace with the silver ball is in plain sight.

You start there.

“Where did you get the necklace,” you ask her as your hands fidget in your lap. “I notice you always wear it, at least the times that I have seen you.”

“My abeula,” she replies and for a moment it seems she is not going to say much else. But Santana takes a slight breath and continues. “She and I had a falling out when I was in high school and didn’t speak for a long time. One day – I remember I was 22 – I had a package in the mail. In it contained a letter from my abeula asking me for forgiveness and the necklace. She wrote and told me that the necklace symbolized her love for me – a circle that never ends. I called her immediately and we talked for hours and I went home to see her a few weeks later. She died about 2 months later. Neither she nor my parents ever told me she was sick. I mourned her a long time and regretted all the moments we missed but I was grateful for the time we spent together and I guess that’s what matters in the end.”

“And you’re right,” she told you picking up her wine glass for another drink, “I never take it off.”

You are fascinated that she has told you something so obviously personal and meaningful to her but you certainly aren’t complaining.

You sit for a moment in a comfortable silence before telling her it’s her turn for a question.

She looks you directly in your eyes and tells you without hesitation. “No Brittany, this is your night. You can ask me anything you want.”

You can’t believe she is willing to be so forthcoming with you but you aren’t going to pass up this chance. You spend the next 20 minutes firing off question pertaining mostly to factual information – where did she grow up, go to college, how many siblings did she have. Things without a lot of emotion behind it. You don’t want to push your luck and you by the time you have finished your soup and she her salad you feel like you have an evolving background on one Lt. Santana Lopez.

The main course comes and with it so do the main questions.

“How did you get involved in you present occupation,” you ask her keeping your voice low. 

“That is a long story,” she replies wiping her mouth with the napkin as she places her fork down. “And the restaurant closes too soon for me to finish it.”

“Not avoiding the question though right?”

You want to make sure you aren’t losing any ground.

“Absolutely not,” she tells you as she takes another sip from her second glass that she ordered between the arrival of the courses. 

You can’t believe how fucking beautiful she is. How refined. How endearing you find her when she looks at you and asks how you are enjoying the meal.  
“Delicious,” you tell her. “Do you cook?”

Santana laughs at your question and therefore you take it as a no. “I know how to make two things,” she tells you as she again picks up her fork to twirl the pasta around. “A mean enchilada dish and a helluva Chinese stir fry.”

You both banter back and forth as the wine takes hold and the food is consumed. You realize before you know it that both of your plates are empty and the wine in the glasses nearly gone. You don’t want the time to end. Maybe if you keep asking questions it somehow won’t. 

“What do you do for fun?”

“I don’t think I do anything for fun Brittany,” she tells you as the waiter comes and clears away the plates. You can tell he wants to get you both out of there because he doesn’t even mention dessert. And while you don’t usually endulge in sweets after a filling pasta meal, you would have chosen to get some tonight because it would mean more time with Santana. 

“Come on Santana,” you smirk, “You have to do something you enjoy outside of work.” You know that she like to sing but you aren’t about to bring that up.

“I don’t have the time for fun often but when I do I enjoy a good meal with good company.” She blushes a little at the comment and looks down at her glass stem like it has something of interest to note.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” You feel sick asking but you want to know.

Santana’s reaction is one you did not expect. She doesn’t say anything but you can see she is uncomfortable that you have asked.

“I think that is all we have time for tonight,” she tells you as she sits back and swallows the last little bit of wine in the glass. Her demeanor has changed and you’re not sure why you’ve hit a nerve – you only know you have.

You try to deflect a little and say, “I appreciate your telling me these things. You trusting me to know more about you. I just want to know your world Santana. I want us to be beyond secrets.”

She looks at you with her hands clasped under her chin “I agree to the no secrets, Brittany. But I would like your commitment to that as well.“

You are getting ready to ask her exactly what she means by that when your waiter picks that exact moment to come by and sit the bill between the two of you at the table. You notice Santana reaching into her purse and pulling out her card to pay. She slides her card onto the table by the bill. 

“No, let me get it,” you tell her reaching your hand out in the gesture.

“You are,” she tells you and lifts her hand off the card fully revealing it.

You cannot hide the blush – or the surprise – when you see the card reads Brittany S. Pierce on the front of it.

It’s your card. The one that you couldn’t find the next day after you went to the bar ‘Nowhere’. When you followed her there and when you heard her sing. And when you saw the man embrace her after the song was over.

You reach out and lay your hand over it as if hiding it now can somehow erase the fact that she knows you were there.

You are shocked even further when you feel her lay her hand on top of yours. You inhale a little too sharply. Your hand feels like it’s on fire. It is an exhilarating feeling, her soft skin against yours, one of her fingers actually slipping between two of yours in the process.

Like she was holding your hand.

“Next time you want to check up on me Brittany,” Santana leans into the table to finish but keeps her hand right where you want it. Her voice is the sexiest thing you have ever heard and you couldn’t take your eyes away from hers if you tried. She finishes with her hand slowly retreating from yours….

“Be a little more discrete.”

\-------------------------------------------

You don’t know what to say as the evening is ending. After paying the bill with your other card since you had already cancelled the one she gave you, you tell her you’re sorry.  
“I probably didn’t give you a lot of choice,” Santana admits with a sigh as she picked up her purse and suit jacket. 

“I promise you that it won't happen again,” you tell her as you slide from the booth.

She stops and looks at you knowing you mean what you say. “I know Brittany. I trust you.”

“Why?” You ask because you are truly curious. You have given her no reason to trust you so far.

But you are even more taken aback by her reply. 

“Because I choose to.” 

You both walk out of the restaurant toward your respective cars and it turns out you parked close to her black Range Rover. You are unlocking yours with the chirp of the key fob when you remember that you wanted to tell Santana about your meeting tomorrow at Cherokee Park. But when you turn around she has already shut the door and turned the engine over.

You don’t have the heart to get back into a full blown work mode after all the progress you feel you have made tonight. You can email her tomorrow. But the night feels unfinished so you manage to knock lightly on her window before she starts to pull away.

She rolls it down slightly and you feel the heat bloom on your face when you tell her.

“I choose to trust you too, Santana.”

Her smile is slight but it fully reaches her eyes and you know you have made her happy. And that choosing to trust her you have crossed some line in this relationship. The knowledge makes you happier than you should be. You are so screwed here. And you know it.

“By the way,” you stop her again because you just can’t help yourself. “I don’t know what you like to do for fun but I hope it’s singing,” you smile as you finish, ”because you sure are great at it.”

It takes you only a few moments to get into your car, latch your seatbelt and start it up. It’s only then that you notice Santana is still staring at you, her mouth still slightly open as it was when you finished your last sentence.

She's still in the parking lot when you drive off.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always appreciated.


End file.
